


Oh we're in love, aren't we

by boinklarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Song fic, canonverse, hearts don't break around here, in-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 16:43:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10312637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boinklarke/pseuds/boinklarke
Summary: Bellamy remembers her barrelling into him, earthy and dirty but real, everything good on this Earth invading his lungs and all he could think was Clarke as he breathed in the fields and the trees and her smell, burrowing his face into her neck like he was desperate for shelter and she was the warmth of home. He remembers how holding her was like leaving the gates to the dropship open and unguarded, and if she were the army of grounders, he could never have closed that door.





	

**Author's Note:**

> maaan I love 'Hearts Don't Break Around Here' by Ed Sheeran, and to procrastinate a Very Important Assignment That I Should Not Procrastinate, I wrote this.

Clarke.

Even her name has a harshness to it; the rough sounds often clawing their way out of people’s mouths, their lips curled almost in a snarl to form the word she calls her own. She is death and destruction, a cold and calculated move that reminds everyone they may not make it through winter.

Clarke is the one who does what is needed to survive; the one who picks who lives, and who dies. They all know it: the Grounders, the Sky People, the Mountain Men.

She knows it, too. That the weight of the world is on her shoulders. That the names of the dead are blood on her ledger.

She knows she is only Wanheda.

 

Bellamy knows all of this. He knows the brief silence in the room when she walks past, the coldness of the grudging respect as she rises to lead. He knows how her head is held a little too high, and her eyes get a little further away, when she faces the people who she might lead to their deaths. He knows what it looks like when she knows she has to make a sacrifice, a little more pain burrowing in from living in the harsh reality of the ground.

But he cannot believe it.

He’s seen it all, but she is not cold; she is the warmest thing he knows.

He remembers the sunlight, glinting off her soft golden hair as she took Atom’s pain from him, pulling him into the safety of the darkness. He remembers that for a brief moment, he was glad it was her: not because then it wasn’t him, but because it was _Clarke_ , and even her name sounded like relief to him, a clear bell in a world that was murky and grey. And if there had to be an angel of death, at least it was her, who glowed so brightly that even the darkness of death could feel like home.

Bellamy remembers her barrelling into him, earthy and dirty but _real_ , everything good on this Earth invading his lungs and all he could think was _Clarke_ as he breathed in the fields and the trees and her smell, burrowing his face into her neck like he was desperate for shelter and she was the warmth of home. He remembers how holding her was like leaving the gates to the dropship open and unguarded, and if she were the army of grounders, he could never have closed that door.

He remembers her in soft firelight, bits of some flower above landing gently on her forehead, and, half-asleep, her fingers grasping the velvety petals and a smile ghosting her lips. He remembers how, as she said how pained she was to leave him in danger, that if he had to burn the world down, she’d be the flint that sparks his lighter; if it meant saving her, he thinks he could do it.

He remembers the moment that made her _Wanheda_ to them, the pain in her eyes, the weight of the world on her shoulders. Where others thought there would be ice, he saw only the flames that licked her palm when she held onto the lever, the pain that she bore so that her people did not have to, the softening of her eyes when they said “together”. He remembers, later, how hearing _Wanheda_ made a chill run through his bones, because she should never be the eerie whisper of the Grounders; she should be _Clarke, Clarke, Clarke_ , the bells of the churches of old calling him to salvation.

He remembers the softness of her sobs, rousing him from sleep, looking over at her in the harsh blue lights of the Ark, but only seeing the gentleness of her heart, and the toll of her duty. How later, when they tell him she was mobbed by the very people she almost sacrificed herself for, he found himself spending every following minute with her, _daring_ them to think she was cold while he glared down at them from his place by her side.

But all the memories pale in comparison to this, mere red at the edges of the flame now, as she presses her lips to his in the most white-hot part of her fire he has ever felt. How can she be cold, he wonders, when the flames from her skin travel to his very core, burning everything else away? How can she be winter, when her hands in his hair bring life, like spring at the end of the coldest night? How can her name be harsh, when it escapes his mouth like a breath of fresh hair, twinkling in the starlight like the old tin wind chimes grounders once used for doorbells?

It is now that he learns what she fears, that he would take her heart and she’d find it in pieces, the purest part of her ravaged by the ground. But Bellamy knows it is her light and hers alone that can guide him home; that fear of death or pain or age is nothing as long when she's there to burn it away.

So in the cold stillness of the night, when she wakes with a stifled scream, eyes glistening with unshed tears and glazing over with a haunted look, he's there to hold her. And every night, battling his own demons, his own fears, he finds himself putting a hand on her chest and reminding her of the inferno burning within, overcoming each dark fear with the brightest light. And they've seen that here on the ground, everything breaks, and amongst the unforgiving trees, love can never last. But Clarke doesn't feel like the ground, and Bellamy fell in love with her between the trees. So here, under the roof they've made their own and the covers that are their home, he finds himself smiling, believing, because oh, surely hearts don't break around here.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry about how cheesy the end part is! I just really love this song & wanted to include those lines, no matter what the cost.  
> this is my first work & the first thing I've written in about six years, so any kind of feedback would be wonderful! thank you!


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